


Busted Flush

by fengirl88



Series: Busted Flush [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kissbingo, M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really <i>is</i> a date, unlike all those candlelit dinners with John.  And it's not going well at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busted Flush

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt square "greetings: see you soon" on my kissbingo card. Thanks to blooms84 for betaing.

_**Busted flush: (a)** in poker, a hand of cards which could have become a flush (five of the same suit) but doesn't; **(b)** metaphorically, someone or something that appears to be promising but is ultimately a failure or a disappointment; **(c)** the expression on Sherlock's face when thinking about a particular encounter with DI Lestrade. (I may have made up the third definition.)_

 

Should have known it wasn't a good idea to come here tonight, Sherlock thinks gloomily. No matter how brilliant he is – and he is - there's always _something_.

In this case, the _something_ is sitting opposite him eating lasagne and looking increasingly uncomfortable as Angelo hovers, staring at him disapprovingly. Sherlock's date for the evening: DI Lestrade.

It really _is_ a date, unlike all those candlelit dinners with John. And it's not going well at all.

 

It had all started with Lestrade becoming – well, _unreliable_. Unreliable in relation to Sherlock, that was. He'd always assumed he could rely on Lestrade for the same reaction: a mixture of confused tetchiness, reluctant admiration and pleasurably desperate _need_ , cut with the sort of unresolved sexual tension that made crime scenes crackle whenever they met. That's the way it had been for most of the last five years, and there seemed no reason to think things would ever change. Until they did.

The change wasn't just in Lestrade, though Sherlock didn't want to admit that even to himself. Since that stupid incident with the drugs bust, he'd found he was thinking about Lestrade a lot. Too much. Well, thinking about him at all was too much, obviously. Pointless waste of time. But not being able to _stop_ thinking about him was – seriously disturbing. He kept getting flashbacks to that scene in 221b, which was ridiculous, because nothing had come of it. They hadn't found anything, and the whole setup was a fake anyway, just an excuse for Lestrade to bully him about the serial suicides case.

But nothing had come of that, either, not even when John Watson had shot the cabbie and Sherlock had stupidly given him away to Lestrade before he'd realized. He knew Lestrade wasn't fooled by his attempts to cover up – _it's the shock talking_ , just embarrassing, wouldn't deceive a child – but Lestrade hadn't pursued the matter beyond one perfunctory interview the following day. And even that, Sherlock was pretty sure, was only for the look of the thing.

After that, Lestrade hadn't been in touch at all. It had been like running into a brick wall, finding he wasn't there for that Black Lotus case. Saying to Dimmock _I phoned Lestrade – is he on his way?_ and Dimmock saying dismissively _He's busy. I'm in charge._

When Lestrade next turned up again, Sherlock was so unreasonably pleased to see him that he'd almost thought of giving in and letting Lestrade have what he wanted for once. But Lestrade wasn't giving off his usual signals. Which was disconcerting.

Worse, he'd suddenly stopped responding to things that _always_ used to work. Sherlock had tried being annoying, being enigmatic, showing off, winking, insults, deliberately standing too close to Lestrade at crime scenes, even some uncharacteristically clumsy pickpocketing, letting his hand linger in Lestrade's pocket so it almost became a grope. Nothing. Lestrade was as near as dammit _ignoring_ him, a thing that had never happened before.

Eventually, driven to desperation, he'd resorted to asking Lestrade out.

“No thanks,” Lestrade said.

“What do you _mean_ , no thanks?”

“I mean, No thanks,” Lestrade said. “Not interested. Would have been once. Not now.”

Sherlock was incredulous.

“I know you're only doing this because Watson's otherwise engaged,” Lestrade said.

“That's not true!” Sherlock protested.

Something in his face or his voice or both must have convinced Lestrade, because he'd grudgingly agreed that they could give it a go.

And Sherlock suggested Angelo's, and here they are.

 

“Does he always stare at the customers like that?”

Sherlock doesn't answer.

“You come here a lot with Watson, don't you?” Lestrade says. “He must think I'm your bit on the side.”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“What's ridiculous is you not telling your flatmate how you feel about him,” Lestrade says.

“Why do people always want to _meddle_?” Sherlock snaps.

“Suit yourself,” Lestrade says. “Just don't expect me to offer you a shoulder to cry on.”

“I don't want one, thanks.”

“What _do_ you want?” Lestrade asks.

 _I want_... His mind flashes up those images again: Lestrade lounging in the armchair at 221b, relaxed and in control, saying _It's a drugs bust!_ Shamelessly pleased with himself, flaunting the irregularity of the whole thing - _they're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen_. Dominating, insistent, probing for Sherlock's weak spots, making him feel helplessly trapped and exposed. He'd never seen Lestrade like that before, and it took his breath away. And what he wants, _now_ , is to be back in that room with Lestrade in control and issuing orders. Just the two of them this time. He didn't know he wanted that till this moment, but he does, wants it so much he can hardly breathe.

Lestrade's staring at him, as if he can see right through him. Sherlock's mouth is dry. He drinks some water, spills some of it on himself. Hand must be shaking.

“Is your flat clean at the moment?” Lestrade demands.

“Not particularly, but then Mrs Hudson keeps saying she's our landlady, not our housekeeper.” Sherlock knows he's pushing it but he can't resist winding Lestrade up.

“Don't mess with me, Sherlock.” Lestrade's voice is hard.

“Or what?” Sherlock says, trying not to wriggle with excitement.

“Or you'll be getting another visit from me,” Lestrade says, “and this time I'll be searching _everywhere_.”

Sherlock chokes on a lettuce leaf and goes off into a fit of coughing.

It's the worst possible moment for Angelo to arrive with the bill, looking reproachful. Also not a good moment for Lestrade to discover that Sherlock hasn't brought any money – because Angelo _never_ gives him a bill, though he can hardly tell Lestrade that. So Lestrade pays, which is seriously awkward, and they go out into the street.

“You ask me out and I end up paying for it, why does that not surprise me?” Lestrade says.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock says. And he is.

Lestrade shakes his head as if he's trying to dislodge something from his ear. “You what?”

“You heard,” Sherlock says. He's not going to repeat it.

“Christmas come early this year?” Lestrade jeers.

“Don't try to be sarcastic, Lestrade, it doesn't–” _suit you_ , he was going to say, but Lestrade pushes him up against the wall and kisses him, a quick hard kiss that makes him go weak at the knees.

“You'd better go through that flat of yours with a fine-toothed comb,” Lestrade says, “because you're going to be seeing me _very_ soon.”

“Don't bring Anderson this time, he's always such a bore,” Sherlock says. He's aiming for insouciant but it comes out too breathless for that.

“Really?” Lestrade says. “Pity. He loves a good drugs bust. And if he's not there I'll have to do the full body search myself. You sure you're ready for that?”

Sherlock moans.

Lestrade grabs him and kisses him again, a kiss that makes Sherlock stagger and clutch at him. Goes on kissing him till Sherlock's dizzy and groaning – and then he pushes him away, so roughly Sherlock almost falls over. He can't possibly be as calm and in control as he seems, but he's putting on a good show of indifference, even amusement. Looks at Sherlock, as if to say _I know exactly what you want and you're not getting it_. Right at this moment Sherlock would let Lestrade do anything he wanted, anything at all, have him right here up against the wall outside Angelo's, _god_ , yes.

“Go home, Sherlock,” Lestrade says. “I'll see you soon.” He turns and walks away, leaving Sherlock still panting and desperately aroused.

Sherlock knows he's not going to make it back to Baker Street like this, but he can't for the life of him remember the nearest safe spot for a wank. All he can do is lean against the wall for support, willing his mind's map to come back into focus again and waiting for the mists to clear.


End file.
